


A New Beginning, Again

by hardboiledbaby



Series: A New Beginning [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Great War is over, and Holmes and Watson return home to Sussex. But things are different now. </p>
<p>Written for the LJ watsons_woes 2015 WAdvent collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Beginning, Again

**Author's Note:**

> Retirementlock; part 5 of "A New Beginning" series, although it can be read as a standalone. Unbeta'd; pls pardon the rampant errors.

_"There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."_  


—Sherlock Holmes, "His Last Bow"

  
   


There is something particularly bracing about the wind that blows in from the Channel. I had always found it so, but after four years spent in London, I was even more keenly aware of its invigorating properties. Since our arrival in Sussex earlier that afternoon, I had been taking every opportunity I could to breathe deeply of the healthy air, relishing the cold, clean tang of salt in my nostrils.

I did so again now, taking in a brisk lungful, and exhaling a white plume that was quickly drawn off by the breeze. Some distance away, near the cliffs’ edge, I saw a similar plume appear and disappear.

Four years is a long time. Six years, of course, is even longer. 

The Downs had altered very little while we were away. A much-feared invasion of Sussex’s shores never materialised, thankfully, and the area had been spared from the wanton destruction wrought by the German air raids elsewhere. Our property carried the unmistakable signs of its extended vacancy, but otherwise it appeared untouched by the effects of war.

_If only the same could be said of its returning occupants_ , I thought.

I walked over to where Holmes stood, his back to me, overlooking the water. As I drew nearer, I could see his breaths more clearly, each cloud taking form for no more than an instant before the wind snatched it away, dispersing the vapour into nothingness.

When I reached Holmes’s side, he glanced round at me. “All is well, I trust?” he asked.

I shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. The house is in fairly decent shape, but the fence and the garden shed need repairing. We’ve enough wood for the moment. We must get more food supplies, though, and soon.” I paused, then asked, “How are the bees?”

“Wintered properly, by the look of the hives,” Holmes replied. “We owe Miss Chalmers a debt of gratitude.”

I nodded soberly. When I left Sussex, I entrusted the bees to Jenny Chalmers, a bright young woman from the nearby village. Jenny worked hard to keep the insects alive and flourishing; first with her brother Philip’s help, then by herself after Philip went to war. 

"Be back soon," he promised her.

Private Chalmers would not keep his promise. He was one of the thousands who died in the Battle of the Somme.

This war had been unlike any the world had ever known. England and her allies had emerged victorious against the East Wind’s terrible fury, but at great, nearly incomprehensible cost. Perhaps compared to such huge tragedy the lives of two old men did not signify, but I was suddenly struck with a deep sense of regret for days gone by, for time irretrievably wasted or lost.

“Watson.” When I did not respond, Holmes linked his arm into mine, and we stood there, our faces to the wind, watching the clouds move across the sky for a long while. Eventually, he spoke again, more gently. “John.”

I sighed, letting my breath stream out like cigarette smoke. “So much has happened, Holmes. We are not the young men we once were. The war is over, but—” 

He turned to face me. His eyes, as clear and discerning now as as they were four decades ago, locked with mine. He saw everything I was, everything I feared. “But the world, it will never be the same again.” 

“So what do we do?” I whispered.

“We begin anew, together.” He bent his head, and in the white fog of our co-mingled breaths our lips met. 

Four decades, and there was still this between us. Passion, yes; but this was more than mere physical desire. Unlikely though it was, I had somehow found my true soulmate, all those years ago. With Sherlock Holmes I had found kinship of spirit, unwavering devotion, an abiding love that would last for as long as we had breath in our bodies, and shared courage for as long as we had new beginnings to face. 

“Yes,” he said, and kissed me again.

I had not spoken aloud, but after only a moment’s thought, I realised I did not need to. 

After all, when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.


End file.
